


Rust

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Dom/sub Undertones, Hair-pulling, M/M, Roughness, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-13
Updated: 2019-04-13
Packaged: 2020-01-12 13:32:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18447587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Melkor notices his Maia’s changed.





	Rust

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Silmarillion or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

There’s a point within the depths of their towering fortress where the stone becomes hot to the touch, and every descending passage makes it that little bit more difficult to breathe. Melkor has little use for air, and he walks where few others dare to—even his creatures born of ash and flame have difficulty with this inner sanctum. It’s a haven left only to Melkor and his general—the only one he’s ever trusted even halfway. He knows before he reaches the bottom rung that Mairon is waiting there; that burning presence is what tugs Melkor in the first place. 

The rock and pits of molten lava are still rough, raw, largely untouched by Melkor’s hand: the spot was perfect as it came. At least, it was once they dug deep enough. The enormous chamber is plain to see—the dancing fire lights the walls in a scalding yellow, illuminating every corner. Usually, Melkor prefers his darkness, but he can stand the light for this. It gives him a lovely view of his faithful servant, who’s lounging in a round grove of rippling magma. Melkor lingers for a moment where he came, just drinking in the sight: the pale, chiseled torso that emerges, broad shoulders spread as long arms brace the cracked earth around the pit. Mairon’s head is tilted back, his eyes closed and his long lashes a dark red against his cheeks. His smooth hair, long and silken, twists over one shoulder, dipping down into the pool. The burnt orange hue is lost amongst the brighter shine of lava. That gives Melkor pause. 

Frowning, he stalks suddenly forward. His heavy boots create loud footsteps that echo off the cavern’s walls, and it’s enough for Mairon to peek his eyes open. He glances lazily at his master, grinning thinly as Melkor kneels down beside him. Reaching out, Melkor lifts a swathe of orange hair from the bath. He twists it around his hand, dragging it onto the land, where he can run his fingers freer through it. Mairon all but purrs.

“You look more like the elves than you ever have,” Melkor notes. Mairon fidgets and leans back, putting himself closer to his master. His eyes are hot and hazed beneath his lowered lashes.

“I have committed to this form,” he murmurs, untroubled. “I have worn it for some time...”

“Yes, but not like this.”

Mairon looks up properly. He quirks a brow, as if seeing Melkor’s frown for the first time. Under that curious gaze, Melkor wraps the soft hair thickly around his palm. 

Then he tugs it fiercely, and Mairon cries out, whining as he’s dragged half out of his bath. Now exposed to the hips, he scrambles at the jagged rock beneath him. Melkor doesn’t relinquish his grip. He brandishes it as he hisses, “These strands used to weave together, to wave and _burn_ like fire, so that it never looked the same when I gazed upon it. Now it lies dormant, only this one dull colour, only falling in one place. Where is the wild beauty that I first drew to me?”

Gasping from the surge of Melkor’s power, Mairon lowers to the ground. He bows like a lowly firstborn, though Melkor knows his Mairon is too clever, too proud, to only cower. Sure enough, when Mairon lifts his gaze again, there’s a subtle stitch of coy attraction in it, and he coos seductively, “I apologize if I have become less pretty for my master to look upon. You must know that this shell is your humble trinket, and I would have it please you.”

Melkor snorts. He doesn’t buy the innocent submission. But he is interested in the subtext of his ownership.

As usual, Melkor takes what he wants. He jerks Mairon up by the hair, enjoying the way that Mairon whimpers and tumbles into his lap. Melkor decides aloud, “You will simply have to make it up to me in different ways—show me what this form of yours can truly do.”

Mairon breathlessly promises, “I would love nothing more,” and leans in to prove it.


End file.
